Orb ,Sceptre ,Throne

A Black trooper ran to them from the woods. Torvald pushed closer to hear the report.

‘The Seguleh have withdrawn to the interior,’ he announced.

Galene examined the blasted field dotted with fallen. ‘Why would they … Our numbers?’ she snapped.

‘Less than three hundred of the flight remain viable.’

‘Ancestors,’ the Silver breathed, and the baton creaked in her ferocious grip. ‘And they?’

‘Perhaps seventy.’

‘Then why … One last charge …’

‘Perhaps,’ Torvald observed, breaking in, ‘someone could go and ask.’

And Galene turned to look him up and down.

‘It is very quiet,’ Councillor D’Arle whispered from his post next to the stairs up from the lowest of the cellars. ‘Perhaps I should take a look.’

Coll rested a hand on the old man’s arm. ‘I’ll go.’ He turned back to examine all the gathered councillors, aristocrats and court bureaucrats staring from the dark. No one else volunteered. Sighing, he loosed his sword in its sheath and started up.

Halfway he stopped as he heard footsteps behind. Redda Orr came up round a corner. ‘What are you doing?’ he hissed.

‘I’m coming with you.’

‘No, you’re not. This isn’t some summer jaunt. Stay below!’

‘I’m trained!’ She drew her slim sword far more swiftly than he ever could.

Coll shook his head. ‘I’m sure you are, child. But this isn’t the duelling field.’

‘I could take you, old man …’

‘Perhaps.’ Coll motioned to one side. ‘What’s that?’

Redda looked. He snatched the blade from her hand. She gaped, frozen, then fury blazed in her eyes. ‘What a dirty trick!’

‘Yes, it was.’ He started up the stairs again carrying both swords. ‘The world’s full of them so you’d better get used to it.’

As he approached the top landing he lay flat to peer over the lip, his blade ready. His gaze met the sandalled feet of two Seguleh. One motioned him back down the stairs.

Damn. We’re prisoners. Goddamned prisoners.

What’s going on? Has the Legate won?

A thought struck him on the way down and he paused, swallowing. Gods! Are we expendable now?

Madrun, Lazan, Thurule and Fisher all crouched as near as was possible to the foaming roiling clouds steaming from the pit. The noisome fumes seemed to repel all the birds and bats stooping in upon them, and the dogs charging from the woods — even one mad horse that had stormed past threatening to run them down.

A dull thud sounded from nearby and Madrun observed, disbelieving, ‘Did that owl just crash into a tree?’

The mist churned and out came the Malazan, a cloth pressed to his nose and mouth. He would have fallen had Fisher not lunged to support him. He hung coughing and gagging, and waved an arm weakly to the pit. ‘That’s the lot. But it’s still there — still in one piece!’

‘What is, Malazan?’ Madrun asked.

Lazan had been squinting off into the woods and now he backed away to tap Madrun on the arm. The giant glanced over and visibly started, amazement and panic in his gaze. ‘Holy Ancestors, I cannot believe it,’ he murmured to Lazan. The two began edging away.

‘Come, Thurule,’ Lazan called. ‘We have fulfilled our mistress’s instructions — now is the time to withdraw!’

Spindle watched in stunned astonishment as the three ran off in what could only be described as a panicked flight. He even sensed his ma grow quiescent in what felt almost like respectful deference. He turned to the woods and saw something huge approaching. Clearing his throat, he spat up a mouthful of the awful fumes he’d endured and raised his Warren to its highest pitch.

Fisher, an arm under one of Spindle’s, whispered, awed, ‘Is that …’

The shape emerged from the shadows to resolve into a wide and massive figure that Spindle recognized as Caladan Brood, the Warlord. The man’s narrowed gaze was turned aside, following Madrun and Lazan Door’s hasty retreat. Bizarrely, he held a spitting cat by the scruff of the neck. His heavy gaze swung to Spindle.

‘What are those two fools doing here?’ he demanded.

‘I … I don’t know,’ said Spindle.

The Warlord held out the frenzied cat. ‘That’s quite enough, Malazan,’ he growled.

Spindle blinked. ‘Oh! Sorry.’ He lowered his Warren. Brood handed the cat to him; it ravaged his hand and arm escaping.

‘Fisher,’ Brood said. ‘What are you doing here?’

The bard shrugged. ‘You know how I feel about witnessing things.’

The Warlord grunted his understanding. ‘Careful. One day you might just buy yourself too much trouble.’ He studied the pit barely visible through the boiling fumes. ‘Let’s have a look, then.’ And he walked into the cloud of poisonous steam.

Spindle watched as best he could through the mist. Peering forward, he thought he saw the Warlord down in the pit studying the stones, tapping them. The man sat back as if thinking. Then he raised both arms up over his head, clasped his hands into a great double fist and brought it down in a tremendous blow that shook the ground beneath Spindle’s feet. Once more he raised his fists and swung them down. This time the air was split by an immense crack that felt almost like a knife jabbing Spindle’s ears.

The Warlord pulled himself up from the pit and emerged waving the fumes from his face. He paused to glance down at Spindle. ‘I warned the creature,’ he said, and walked off the way he’d come.

Spindle let out a long slow breath. Fisher echoed the sentiment with a nod. Spindle gestured to the pit. ‘Well — you know, we must’ve weakened it for him …’

‘Oh, of course …’

Jan found the double doors of the Great Hall closed, but they opened easily at his touch. Within lay the Legate, or his body. He lay on his back, hands crossed over his chest. A forest of broken bolts stood from him at all angles. The gleaming gold oval remained fixed to his face. Yet it was marred now; a crack ran from the bottom up one cheek to just below a graven eye. Jan approached. He wanted to kneel to make certain of him, but to do so would possibly reopen the wound at his side. Was the man dead? He could not be sure.

A voice whispered then, within his mind: ‘Servant …’

He flinched away. What was this?

‘Take the mask, servant.’

The mask?

‘Yes. I sense you are wounded. Accept it and you will live for ever.’

Accept it? Wear it?

‘Yes. I have been banished from this flesh — but accept the mask and together we shall live again.’

Jan retreated from the corpse. No.

‘No? No! You have no choice, servant. Do as I command!’

No. Our slavery is long over. We have found our own way. We are our own masters now. I consign you to the past. I turn my face from you. You no longer exist.

‘Slave! Come back! I order you! Obey!’

Jan walked away. Leaving the throne room he met one of the pet mages at the doors; the one who paraded as a dancing girl. She came staggering up, an arm across her stomach, agony on her panicked face. ‘What is going on?’ she gasped. ‘Where are the others? What has happened?’